Cruelty

She was a girl of flawed and low character, suitable for little more than feedstock.

Two vignettes about Callista Hayes, followed by descriptions of her and her superior officer.

Precious little witch-to-be, caught in a trap— Cold iron teeth cling to her ankle, slowly warming in her blood’s heat; she doesn’t have the strength to move, can’t drag herself across the smiling tiles. The door’s right there: those few feet might as well be miles. She can’t think how this happened. Just moments ago she was out on the street, wandering through autumn’s dripping red and yellow, just enjoying the season. Cold, crisp air filling her lungs and the warmth of her oversized caterpillar of a familiar around her neck. ...

(this story hurt to write; I cannot say whether it will hurt to read, but please don’t force yourself to.) The witch treasured her dolls more than anything else, more than all her wealth and power. She crafted them from the finest components, beautiful souls carefully freed from failing flesh and woven through with threads of memory and love; each one a testament to her devotion. For a time this love was even reflected in the title the world gave her, that welled up from the strength of her workings and the marks she left around her. ...